


The Chasm and the Clash

by twothumbsandnostakeincanon (somanyofthekids)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Dream Sharing, M/M, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Reincarnation, Suicidal Thoughts, kind of, starts immediately after season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 13:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21374917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanyofthekids/pseuds/twothumbsandnostakeincanon
Summary: Stiles has dreams of the Alpha after he dies. It makes no sense. He didn't know Peter before... did he?Did Peter know him?And why does his head hurt so much?
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 47
Kudos: 680





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my drafts literally since I very first started writing Teen Wolf fic. I had plans. Such big plans. Plans I kind of don't care about anymore? Anyway, I still really like what I have here, but it's definitely rough and there are threads that I don't entirely resolve, but the chances of me adding more to this are pretty slim. So just be warned.

The lycanthrope and the magi of Herakleum labor in the same home, both within reach of the midwife. The babies take their first breath within minutes of each other, and when they’re laid next to their mothers, chubby little uncoordinated arms reach out for one another. 

They continue reaching out for the next 67 years. 

.

.

.

In a castle, the queen brings her son and heir into the world with an almighty scream. The infant’s cry is even louder. 

Across the kingdom, a serf must pause for an afternoon to birth her sixth daughter- hopefully this one will live long enough to celebrate the harvest. 

They both die at the age of four, victims of a cursed plague. 

.

.

.

Everyone calls the two sisters; delivered on the same day, though to different families. 

They’re never out of arm's reach of each other, always playing the silliest games, pretending to play out dramatic lives. 

Everyone calls them sisters, but they call each other wife until the day they both die. 

.

.

.

Born in the same huge city, they don’t meet until they’re in the trenches of a foreign country. 

The recognition is instant, the relief immediate, and the pain of separation imminent. 

They whisper together  _ (I’m sorry it took so long to find you this time),  _ they plan together  _ (when we get home from the war, we’ll tell everyone we’re starting a business together), _ they comfort together  _ (it’s the shell-shock, it’s not real this time).  _

And as ever, they die together, two red blooming flowers in a field of death.


	2. Chapter 1

When Peter was born, something was wrong. 

Not with the birth, or with the baby himself- everything had gone normally, the labor overseen by the pack’s emissary as was tradition. He assured everyone that the baby had clear lungs and an obviously healthy appetite. 

But if it were at all possible for a newborn to look something other than small and sleepy, then Peter looked it. There was a distinctly lost air about him. Searching, but not finding. He wasn’t looking for his mother, who hadn’t set him down since the emissary handed him over. He wasn’t looking for his father, who hadn’t left his mother’s side. But he  _ was _ looking. 

The day drew to its close, and he grew unusually fussy for a newborn. As far as the Hale Alpha could remember, her other child mostly slept through her first days. 

Peter fussed and squirmed and used his brand new lungs to wail pitifully. It continued, getting worse as the night went on, until midnight. As the clock ticked over into a new day, Peter suddenly stopped. His newborn eyes, unable to truly focus on anything anyway, stared into the darkness. 

He didn’t cry anymore after that.

* * *

Sixteen years later, Peter knew something was wrong with himself. He was missing a fundamental… something. 

He didn’t know what it was- he’d looked in his dad’s psychology books, and couldn’t find anything that fit exactly. Something was just...  _ missing _ from him. 

He thought he was probably a monster- not because he was a werewolf. After all, Talia was a werewolf too, and she was normal. His parents were both werewolves, and they never spoke of feeling...  _ monstrous. _ His brief nights under the moon were one of the few distractions striking enough to make him forget what he was.

He wasn’t a monster because he was a werewolf. However, if it weren’t so hard to kill a werewolf… perhaps he would have managed to stop being a monster by now.

Sometimes he wondered if his manner and looks were part of his monstrosity; they’d never failed to hide his missing parts. When one can flash a dazzling smile and offer a smooth-tongued compliment, no one looks too hard. Did pretending to be normal make him  _ more _ of a monster? Or was it an inherent part of the monstrosity?

If he stopped pretending, would they notice? 

Would the hunters?

Normally, it was a thought that stuck to him like a thistle, pricking into him and refusing to let go.

But today… today, somehow he didn’t feel quite so bad. It was incredibly strange, as if a piece of himself had suddenly slotted into place after 16 years. 

Maybe it was the spring air. 

He walked by his mother’s office just in time to hear her say “-tied up because one of the deputies apparently had his first kid today. He’ll be out for the rest of the week, so Sheriff Johnson’s trying to work around the schedule.”

Peter continued on his way to the front door for a walk through the woods. 

Deputy had a baby, huh? Good for him. 

Peter didn’t realize it, but he was smiling to himself,  _ for himself, _ for the first time in his life.

* * *

When Stiles was four, Claudia found him sobbing his little heart out on the couch. 

When she had him situated on her lap, snuggled to her chest, he finally calmed down enough to hear her ask, “What’s the matter baby? Are you hurt?”

“I j-just,” he took a deep shuddering breath and started crying again. “I just miss him! I want him! I want to see him, I miss him!!” The tears came fast again, but quieter. 

Claudia was confused. 

“Who, sweetie?” 

“I don’t know!” Stiles wailed. 

Claudia held him tighter, letting him cry into her. 

The next morning, she went to the library and took out every book with a section on displaced grief, and made an appointment with a child psychologist.

The psychologist offered a tentative early diagnosis of ADHD, but had no suggestions for why Stiles might be having such pointed feelings of loss. Claudia left the appointment more frustrated than before, and Stiles left the appointment thinking that his sadness was the reason. 

He cried quietly after that. Quietly, and alone. For a while, he would still tell his mom when he missed him (“Who Stiles?”)(“I don’t know”) but that made her sad too. 

After she got sick, he was very careful never to tell her when he missed him. 

When she died, he missed her instead. 

At least, that’s what he told himself when the feeling popped up out of nowhere, for no specific reason, and pierced through him like a needle.

* * *

“You must be Stiles.”

Stiles was stunned. He didn’t… did he know him? 

There was no recognition in the man’s eyes- they barely held anything but single minded purpose. 

Except-

“You must be Stiles,” Derek’s uncle repeated, more slowly this time, the words holding a touch of confusion. 

Stiles opened his mouth, to ask  _ what _ he wasn’t sure  _ (Do you know me? Do I know you? Why do I know you?) _ , but the back of his head throbbed, pulsing as though he’d been struck. 

He gasped and stumbled forward, dropping the phone. Peter stuck out a hand as if to catch him, but didn’t get near enough before Stiles yanked himself back.

Hurt and disorientation were palpable in the air between them, and the mild expression on Peter’s face was melting off to be replaced by agitation.

“You  _ must _ be Stiles,” Peter insisted, taking another step forward. Stiles felt a jerk in his gut pulling him forward. The desire to get closer to Peter was so intense that he found himself stumbling backwards again in fear. 

His head throbbed again, and he reached back to grasp at the base of his skill. 

“Peter,” he mumbled, screwing up his eyes against the pain.  _ Peter, Peter, an absent ache- _

“STILES, GO!”

Stiles’ eyes snapped open at the sound of Derek’s voice. His head gave one more throb, and every thought of the last three minutes disappeared as he hit the floor.

* * *

Peter had to find the boy. 

But he hesitated. 

The need to see him, be near him- it was so overwhelming that it nearly disrupted his thoughts of vengeance. He couldn’t step from his path, not for a moment. 

But the boy. 

He would help. 

He ignored the throb of pain in his head, barely a drop in the bucket against the invisible burns covering his body. 

Peter had to find the boy.

* * *

Stiles should have just stayed at the dance after Lydia ditched him.  _ Why  _ had he even gone out to the field alone? 

The silence of the parking garage mocked him in answer. Instead, Peter repeated his own question.

“Do. You. Want. The. Bite?” Peter asked again, holding Stiles’ wrist to his mouth. 

Stiles shivered, pain gathering at the base of his skull. This- this was familiar. Not the words, but the touch of Peter’s lips against-

“No!” Stiles yanked his hand away from the frightening familiarity. And it was true, he didn’t want the bite, he couldn’t take the bite, he  _ knew _ he couldn’t take the bite, it wouldn’t work- a sharp throb behind his head threw him off. He gasped. “I don’t want to be like you.”

That was a lie. 

They were already like each other. 

Later, standing next to his crushed car keys, Stiles massaged the back of his head and wondered why it hurt more back there than it did where he’d been pushed against the trunk.

* * *

Hesitation gripped him and he held the bottle. 

_ Don’t throw it, don’t throw it, don’t- DON’T _

His toss was half-hearted at best. Peter caught it easily, almost as if it were something they’d practiced thousands of times-

An arrow shattered the bottle, and flames once again consumed Peter Hale. 

In the middle of all the following horror, no one noticed when Stiles fell to his knees, breathless and keening over a pain he couldn’t explain. 


	3. Chapter 2

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the side of Peter’s throat. 

“It’s not your fault,” Peter whispered back, arms wrapped around him, holding him close. “None of this was your fault.” 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, squeezing his eyes shut against Peter’s skin, trying to stem the flow of tears. 

“It’s going to be alright. We’ll be alright.”

Tears continued to fall from Stiles’ eyes, and were still there when he woke from his dream. 

He hastily wiped them from his face and sat up, rubbing his hands over his head in frustration. 

Two nights in a row now_ . _

Why was he dreaming about Peter Hale? The Alpha? Well, not anymore, he was dead now-

A sharp stab of grief ripped through him.

Stiles lay back down and stared at the ceiling. God, he was just so… depressed. 

He’d always thought depression must feel like being sad all the time, but-

It was like an unseen force was physically pushing him down. Suppressing his emotions, holding back his mind, dragging his body closer to the earth. Pressing.

_ Depressed. _

He closed his eyes tightly, reaching back to his dream. 

It was so strange; he’d never been great at retaining his dreams, but he had perfect recall of the time spent asleep with Peter. 

He felt whole again, then. He felt more clear headed in his sleep than he did when he was awake. How fucked up was that? He felt the best when he was unconscious and spending time with his brain’s manifestation of a dead murderer. 

He sighed, exhausted. It had only been a few days since that night. Maybe he just needed time.

* * *

A pair of fingers snapped in front of his face, and Stiles startled. 

“Bilinski! You forget your meds today?”

Stiles stared at Finstock with an open mouth for a moment before gathering himself. 

“Uh, no. Yes? Maybe. I have no idea.”

He really didn’t. His bottle of Adderall sat on his desk at home specifically so that he would remember to take it when he grabbed his backpack in the morning, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember if he’d done that this morning. He had his backpack with him, so maybe he took it?

Finstock sighed dramatically and marched back to his desk, reaching inside a drawer. He chucked a can of Mountain Dew at Stiles’ head, which Stiles just barely caught. 

“Drink some over the counter stimulants and pay the hell attention in my class. Now-”

As Finstock continued his lecture on the several loopholes in laws surrounding stock trade, Stiles popped open the can and took a drink. 

Maybe the caffeine would help his headache anyway.

* * *

They sat next to each other, touching shoulder to thigh. 

“I keep expecting this to stop,” Stiles said languidly, leaning on Peter. 

“It’s not going to stop. We’re-”

“I know what you think we are,” Stiles cut him off. 

“What I _ know _ we are,” Peter corrected, smirking. 

Stiles pinched his lips. “What _ I _ know is that you murdered a bunch of people.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Only the ones who deserved it. True- I wasn’t well, and I got a little… out of hand there at the end. But the only ones who actually died were the ones responsible.” He turned to look directly at Stiles. “You can’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same.”

Stiles looked away. He absolutely _ would _ have done the same, although perhaps in a different way. But the end result would have been the same: anyone who had a hand in hurting his dad would have had their lives burned to the ground. 

He didn’t feel ready to admit it out loud, though. Peter seemed to understand, and his face softened. 

“You’ve always been the slightly more ethical half of us. You probably would have weighed the intentions against the damages more carefully. I do love that about you.”

Stiles’ cheeks pinked. “Great,” he said, smiling with the corner of his mouth, still not looking at Peter. “I always wanted to be loved for my sexy, sexy ethics.”

Peter threw his head back and laughed. Stiles’ glanced up from beneath his eyelashes to look at his beautiful smile-

_ BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BE- _

Stiles slammed the off button on his alarm and stared at the wall blankly.

Two weeks. 

Two weeks of dreaming about Peter Hale.

God, his head hurt. 

Eventually, Stiles dragged himself out of bed, forgoing a shower. He just didn’t have the energy. When he got to the kitchen, he looked in the fridge, and all the cupboards, and then the fridge again before settling on a granola bar and three ibuprofen for his pounding headache. He downed the pills dry and took a bar out of the box to look at it for a minute, and then put it in his pocket. 

He’d eat it at school. 

Just like every day since Peter had burned, classes passed in a kind of frosted glass blur. It felt impossible to concentrate, like half of himself just wasn’t present. 

At lunch, Scott paused in his morose blabber over Allison for a moment. 

“What about Lydia?”

There was a beat before Stiles realized that Scott had actually asked him a question.

“What _ about _ Lydia?” Stiles asked.

Scott furrowed his eyebrows. “It’s been like a week since you talked about her. Usually you can’t even go two days without updating me on your ten year plan.”

Stiles shrugged. “She ditched me at the dance, dude. That’s a pretty resounding nope. I guess I just… moved on.”

Distantly, he realized that this was probably a bad thing. Dropping interests suddenly and entirely like that… it wasn’t a good sign. 

When he got home from school that day, he sat down in front of his closed laptop and bit his finger nail until his head started to throb in time with his chewing. With determination, he finally opened it and typed in “lucid dreaming.”

Page after page of results, and nothing fit. Nothing was close enough to what he was experiencing, nothing hit that resonance inside of him that said _ this is right. _

So, with a sigh, and much more reluctance, he changed his search to “supernatural bond.”

After filtering out the romance novels, he was left with a lot of results about familiars and general wolf pack bonds. 

Eventually a few dusty links led to what he’d been both looking for and afraid to find: soulmates. 

He poured through articles about twin flames, Alpha mates, and mirrors, but it still wasn’t there. There was no ring of truth- until he read the wiki on Zeus and Apollo tearing apart people, only to turn their faces inward. It still wasn’t quite right, but he could feel something... an idea, just out of reach-

_ “Ah!” _ he hissed in a breath of pain and dug his fingers into the back of his head. Frustrated, he slammed his laptop closed and left his room.

He collapsed on his living room couch and waited for his headache to abate. 

What was he even doing with a search like that?

Why was it the only thing he could dredge up even a small amount of interest for?

Did it even matter? Did he care?

God, he was tired.

When his dad got home that night Stiles was sitting in the living room, eyes closed with the TV on, debating more ibuprofen. 

“Whatcha watching?” John asked, making dad-specific groaning noises as he sank into his favorite recliner. 

“I think I need a psychiatrist,” Stiles blurted. He opened his eyes in surprise at his own words. 

John looked over, startled. 

“Not a therapist, or not just a therapist- I think I need antidepressants,” Stiles continued, deciding to press forward. “I just- I don’t-” He huffed, frustrated. “Something is _ wrong _ dad. I’m not… I’m just _ not. _ Not _ anything. _ ” He scrubbed at his face and reached behind his head, pulling at the back of his neck. “I’m not happy, not sad, not excited- something is _ gone.” _

John looked extremely upset; it made Stiles feel awful. He considered backpedaling for a moment, but the idea of continuing as he had was unbearable.

“Stiles- I’m so sorry. I’ll make an appointment with Dr. Raj first thing tomorrow, alright?” John got up from his chair and sat down next to Stiles, putting an arm around his shoulders and pulling him in. “How- I’m not doubting at all that you feel the way you do- but how long have you been feeling this way? How long have I been missing it?” he asked, forehead deeply creased.

Stiles shook his head, determined to ease his father’s conscience. “Not too long. Like two weeks, probably. Since just after winter formal,” he shrugged listlessly.

“Do you think it’s because of Lydia… abandoning you at the dance?” John asked cautiously, clearly afraid of stepping on an emotional mine. 

“No, I don’t think so. It hasn’t really… that’s not what’s been on my mind. She hasn’t really been on my mind at all.” He clamped his mouth shut after that. 

John made a few more attempts to get him to open up, but Stiles was done for the night. Exhausted, he headed to bed both trepidatious and relieved.

* * *

“I can’t even really figure out what you are,” Stiles said from where he was seated crossways in Peter’s lap, cheek leaned on his shoulder. 

Peter hmm’d. “And what are the possibilities?”

“Most likely? Something my imbalanced brain chemicals have come up with as a result of stress and my guilt over killing you.”

Peter turned his head to bury his nose in Stiles’ hair. “You didn’t kill me, my dear nephew did.”

“I’m the one who lit you on fire.”

“No, you didn’t do that either. That honor once again fell to an Argent matriarch,” Peter said with a small sneer before kissing the top of Stiles’ head. 

“But I threw the bottle she used to light you on fire.”

“You tossed it underhand, sweetheart. Like slowpitch softball. You knew I was going to catch it.” Peter continued nosing through Stiles’ hair, rubbing his lips against the soft strands. 

It felt so _ real. _

“Yeah,” Stiles said quietly. “I did know you were going to catch it.” His voice sounded lost. “How did I know you were going to catch it?”

Peter pulled back to look at him in the eyes. “I already told you, baby.”

“I still don’t believe that.”

“You apparently also don’t fully believe that I’m just something your imbalanced brain chemicals came up with either,” Peter said, eyebrow raised. 

“Maybe you’re a ghost,” Stiles suggested halfheartedly. “A ghost with some really weird agenda that I can’t figure out.”

Peter made a see-sawing motion with his hand. 

“Ghost might actually not be a half bad way of describing it. I haven’t ‘moved on’ or whatever usually happens after we die. I’m usually with you, even when you’re awake, although I feel most… real? Complete, maybe. I feel most complete when you’re asleep.”

Stiles buried his face further into Peter’s neck. 

“You’re with me when I’m awake?”

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

“Creeper,” he said without conviction. Stiles pressed his face forward a little more as Peter chuckled. “... So, assuming you’re a ghost and not a manifestation of my deteriorating psychological health, you’ll be with me when I go see Dr. Raj?” Stiles asked, closing his eyes and making the lashes brush again Peter’s skin. 

Peter paused before answering. “Do you want me to stay away? I haven’t tried yet, but I could probably… stay out in the lobby or something. Maybe.”

“No,” Stiles said, a little too loudly. “No,” he repeated, quieter. “It would make me feel better to think that you’re there, even if I can’t see you. Even if you’re not real.” He went quiet again for a moment. “If you’re not real, I don’t have to face that until the drugs start working.”

Peter wrapped his arms around Stiles more tightly. 

“I think some of your reasoning is flawed,” he said, pressing his lips back into Stiles’ hair. “Last I heard, antidepressants don’t change hallucinations. But I’ll be there with you. Always, if that’s what you want.”

Stiles didn’t say anything. He couldn’t voice the words, even in this incredibly lucid, un-real state. 

They stayed like that until Stiles woke up.

* * *

Peter followed behind Stiles as he signed in at the front office. There was always a tangential sense to reality when Stiles was awake. Peter was connected, but not all the way there. 

He watched as Stiles was shown into an office and given an over-copied sheet of paper with a list of questions- Peter recognized it as the PHQ-9, a common sight among his father’s papers when he was still alive and in practice. 

Peter cringed as Stiles circled 3 after 3. Stiles hesitated before the last one, rubbing the back of his neck up to the base of his skull, and finally circled a zero on that one. His speeding pulse gave away what he clearly wouldn’t admit. 

_ How often have you had thoughts that you would be better off dead, or of hurting yourself? _

“Oh, sweetheart,” Peter whispered, the sound full of grief. 

He stood next to him, hand on his shoulder even if neither of them could feel it in this domain.

When Dr. Raj finally came in, she was all business. Peter saw Stiles’ shoulders drop a little from their tense position as she simply looked at the answers and said, “I recommend we try Zoloft. Based on your height and weight, twenty five milligrams would be the starting dose. Zoloft takes at least two weeks to build up to full effectiveness, but chances are also good that you’ll start feeling a little bit of difference right away, okay?”

Stiles nodded, relief evident on his face. 

“I also see that you already have a patient relationship with a local therapist?” she said questioningly. 

“Yeah. I talked to him a few times after my mom died.” He shrugged. “He was pretty good.”

Dr. Raj nodded. “Then I recommend you start seeing him again as well. Medication is a very helpful tool for Major Depressive Disorder, but talking to someone honestly about what’s going on in your life will probably help you the most.” She waited patiently for Stiles to nod his agreement, and then tore the prescription off her pad. 

“I’ll see you in two weeks, Mr. Stilinski.”

Later, sitting in his Jeep that was still parked in the pharmacy lot, Stiles gripped the steering wheel with two hands and pressed his forehead to the steering wheel, hard enough to make it creak.

_ “God, _ my fucking head,” he mumbled. After a moment, he sat up and looked around his car.

His pink cheeks spoke volumes about how foolish and unsure he felt, but Peter was still sitting next to him when Stiles said, “I don’t know if you can hear me while you’re there, or actually if you’re even there at all, but… I just want to clear up one thing before tonight. I’m not going to call my old therapist.”

_ “Excuse _ me?” Peter said incredulously, regardless of the fact that he wouldn’t be heard. 

“I can’t be honest with him, Peter. If you’re right, and all of this is real- then talking to him about it puts us all in danger. If I can’t be honest about what’s going on, it’s not going to be helpful. One session with my therapist costs two hundred dollars, Peter, and my dad’s insurance doesn’t cover any of it.” He took a deep breath.

“I don’t- my time with you is the only peace I get Peter.” Stiles’ voice held a hint of begging now, and Peter’s heart was breaking. “I don’t want to have to argue with you about this. And it really seems like something you’d want to argue about-”

Peter could help a small, painful smile at how well Stiles knew him despite not remembering him at all. 

“- so please, just take the rest of the afternoon to lecture me or whatever while I can’t hear it, and tonight… tonight please just let me rest with you, okay?”

Peter crossed his arms as Stiles started the car and drove home, upset with his choice. 

But in the end, it was still his choice. 

Peter held him close that night as they both reveled in the temporary feeling of being whole.

* * *

The Zoloft… 

It didn’t do anything. 

Half of Stiles was still missing from himself, even after Dr. Raj kicked him up to 50 mg a day. 

Something else was happening in town too. His dad was working longer hours every day, and Derek had been lurking around. Scott obviously had things going on as well, but ever since he found out about the psychiatrist-

“I just think maybe you should take a break, dude,” Scott had said earnestly the day after Stiles’ appointment. “There’s nothing going on that you should know about. Just take some time to focus on you.” 

Then he’d given him _ that look. _ The one that was a “how ya doin’, buddy?” and patronizing back pat all in one. 

Stiles didn’t even particularly care. He was sure that he absolutely _ should _ know about whatever was going on, but he just… didn’t care. 

Derek tried to talk to him about it once. The brand new Alpha had come over to threaten him or something- Stiles didn’t remember because he’d interrupted whatever little speech Derek had prepared. 

“Are ghosts real?”

Derek was clearly thrown off. “What?” he asked, an undertone of confusion apparent on his constantly angry face. 

“Are ghosts real. Can they visit people in dreams?”

“That’s… I was talking about a _ kanima,” _ Derek said slowly, as if he were talking to a small child. 

“I know,” Stiles said impatiently, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment and knuckling at his forehead to relieve some of the pressure. “I don’t care. Are ghosts real? Do you think your uncle could be a ghost?”

“No, ghosts aren’t real,” Derek said exasperatedly. “And if my Uncle Peter were a ghost, why would he haunt _ you?” _

The words felt like a too-sharp slice in his chest- the type that was so sharp you couldn’t feel the cut, only that something had been exposed in a terrible way. The words felt _ honest. _ Stiles tuned out the rest of whatever Derek was there for, and by the time he looked up again Derek was gone. 

That night, for the first time, Stiles resisted going to Peter’s arms as soon as he fell asleep. 

“You’re not real,” he whispered. He could feel tears in his eyes. _ Fuck, _ why did he feel so much in here and nothing out there?

“Derek said ghosts aren’t real, and that you wouldn’t come see me even if you were real.” Stiles wandered around the completely unrememberable room they met in. “He’s right. Of course he’s right. I’m not just depressed, I’m going full tilt crazy- oh my god I probably have a brain tumor, _ Jesus _-”

Peter growled, claws extending from his hands as he clenched and unclenched his fists. 

“Derek barely knows his ass from his eyebrows, he’s hardly an expert on what we have,” he said, voice somehow both angry and pleading. 

“What _ do _ we have, Peter?” He barreled on without waiting for an answer. “There’s not even a ‘we,’ there’s just me and my fucked up brain!!” Stiles started pacing back and forth, agitation breaking his aimless wandering. “You’re not real! Oh my god, you probably _ never were. _ What if I made up everything about the Alpha, what if none of it was real, what if Scott was just playing along-” Stiles’ fingers dug into his arms as his words became more frantic. 

“Stiles, _ please,” _ Peter was outright begging. “Please, what if I tell you- there’s a vault, underneath the high school! The Hale vault. What if I give you directions, and you go take a picture of something with your phone, alright? Then show the picture to your father, and ask him to look at it. If he agrees with you on what’s in the picture, then I’m real, right? That’s proof.”

Stiles paused in his pacing. 

Peter continued, encouraged. “There’s no way you could find the vault without instruction, right? It’s not on any blueprint. I’m not even sure Derek knows how to get there. And once you’ve taken a picture, write down what it’s a picture of. When your dad confirms what’s in the picture, that’s proof that you didn’t just hallucinate the vault. Okay?”

Stiles looked over at Peter, so lost and hurt that Peter couldn’t bear it. 

“Sweetheart, please,” he said, voice quiet. “Please, can I come to you?”

Hesitation, and then a nod. 

Peter shot over and swept him up in his arms. Stiles clutched the back of his shirt, molding himself to Peter. 

“I’m _ real, _ Stiles. This is _ real,” _ Peter whispered. 

Stiles held back a sob. He felt whole, here with Peter. 

“Yeah,” he said through a choked voice. “Tell me where to find the vault.”

He would get proof one way or another. If the vault wasn’t there, or the picture was empty, he would ask his dad to check him into the hospital. 

And he would do whatever it took to stop seeing Peter.

* * *

Apparently the vault usually needed a Hale’s claws to get into it, but Peter had a workaround involving some chanting and a blood token. It all seemed very _ Buffy _ to Stiles, but it worked, and he finally stood inside the vault. 

It looked real. It felt real. As real as anything else felt when he wasn’t with Peter, anyway. 

He cast his gaze around, finally deciding to take a picture of a wolf statue. It was carved out of dark wood, with small red stones in the eyes. The Hale triskele was impressed on the chest of the carving. 

Specific to the Hales, yet generic enough that his dad wouldn’t be suspicious about where Stiles had gotten the picture. 

His movements were even more clumsy than usual these days. A constant throb in the back of his head affected both gross and fine motor skills, but he managed to write the details down on a scrap of paper and shove it in his pocket. Then he locked up the vault and went home to anxiously wait for the sheriff.

* * *

“Yeah, that’s a pretty cool statue. Are you thinking about getting into wood carving?” John asked, obviously trying to sound encouraging. 

Stiles’ heart felt like it was about to beat out of his chest. “I just thought it looked cool. What-” he cleared his throat. “What do you think of the design on its chest?”

John furrowed his eyebrows, glancing back at the picture. Stiles’ stomach sank. Oh god, no, he couldn’t see it-

“The three-swirly thing? Yeah, it’s nice. Looks a little familiar, but I can’t decide where I’ve seen it before.” John looked up from the picture and frowned thoughtfully. 

Relief flooded Stiles’ stunned body. 

It was real.

* * *

“I told you,” Peter said as he nosed into the side of Stiles’ neck and stroked his hands up and down Stiles’ back. 

Stiles snorted inelegantly. “It’s all pretty un-fucking-believable dude. You can’t blame me for being suspicious.”

He felt so much better now, here. But-

“I’m still not sure I believe you about the other thing.”

“How else can you explain this?” Peter pulled back just far enough to gesture between the two of them. “You just determined that I’m real, and our visits are real. How do you explain that aside from soulmates?”

“Soulmates, I might actually be able to believe,” Stiles argued. “I can totally see that being some kind of mystical werewolf thing. But that’s not exactly what you said, is it? _ Two halves of the same soul. _ That’s… that’s different. Bigger.”

Peter nosed back into Stiles’ neck. He felt as if maybe he could actually catch the scent of his mate if he tried hard enough. He hadn’t yet, but why stop trying?

“It’s true,” he said, obstinate as ever. “We’re soulmates, two halves of the same soul, reincarnated who knows how many times. Born on the same day, dead on the same day, every time- except this one.” He dragged his nose up Stiles’ throat, enjoying the shiver it pulled from his mate. Whispering, he said, “We were an apportioner, Stiles. The gods obeyed us.” 

“Hm, and you don’t think that’s just your narcissism talking?” Stiles said, exposing more of his throat to Peter. 

“If it were narcissism, I don’t think I’d be admitting that our sisters overthrew us and tossed us from the group, dividing our soul and our magic.” 

Peter didn’t have to look up to know Stiles was rolling his eyes. 

“Yeah, and about that- I’m pretty sure I would have noticed by now if I were Hogwarts material.”

“I keep telling you: something’s gone wrong with this life.” Peter pulled back, dragging Stiles along with him so he could sit with the boy between his legs, arms wrapped around him. 

Once Stiles’ back was pressed to his chest, Peter continued. “I don’t know what went wrong, but I suspect someone interfered. Your magic has been bound just like your memories are bound; the way my memories _ were _ bound before death freed them. _ Someone _ has to be responsible for that. It doesn’t just happen, not when we’ve lived dozens of lives without difference before.”

Stiles was quiet for a moment. “Dozens, huh?”

“Mm-hm.”

“So then… at some point you probably kissed my wrist, huh?”

“Most definitely,” Peter said as he raised Stiles’ arm to press his lips against the pulse there.

“It felt… familiar. In the parking garage,” Stiles explained. “And I knew you couldn’t bite me. It wouldn’t do anything, I _ knew _ it, but I couldn’t think- my head hurt. The way it always pounds now.” 

Stiles felt a subvocal growl at his back. 

“When we find out who did this, I’m going to shred them apart.” Peter said every word with conviction. 

If this was all true, Stiles didn’t think he’d have a problem with letting Peter do that. 

“What do we do now?” he asked. 

“Now,” Peter said as he kissed further down Stiles’ arm. “I tell you how to put me back in my body.” Another kiss was added, this time at the crook of the elbow. 

Even though it was still technically a dream, Stiles felt his nerves zinging with every press of Peter’s lips. 

Then Peter’s words registered. 

“Put you back in your body?” he demanded, yanking his arm back to turn around and look at Peter incredulously. 

Peter smirked. “I had originally intended to use the banshee-”

“What banshee?”

“The little redheaded girl. You know her-”

_ “Lydia?!” _

“Yes, I was going to bite her as an insurance policy. Tie myself to her so she could do the ritual, but I never had the chance.” He shrugged casually. “Turns out I didn’t need to. I already had the much-preferable tie to you.”

“Damn right, preferable,” Stiles grumped. “I can’t believe Lydia’s a banshee and I didn’t know.”

“I doubt even she knows, darling.”

“So- we can put you back in your body? Is this like a zombie-situation or more like a Jesus-situation? Is your body still going to be burnt and cut open when you get back inside it?”

“A Jesus situation, I suppose, if that’s what you want to call it,” Peter responded, amused. “I doubt my body will be at full capacity for quite a while afterwards, but it should be whole.”

“Well, how do we get started?” Stiles asked eagerly.

* * *

It was two weeks until the Worm Moon. 

In the grand scheme of things, it was nothing. 

In the present, it was an eternity. 

Knowing the truth of Peter didn’t lessen whatever was affecting Stiles when he was awake. He was barely aware of anything that wasn’t preparing to bring back Peter or keeping his headache under control. 

Something was clearly still happening with Scott and whatever Derek had been talking about. Kanima? It didn’t matter. 

Any time his dad wasn’t home, or he wasn’t at school, or he wasn’t getting something ready for the ritual, Stiles was asleep. 

“I’m just worried about you, baby,” Peter said, forehead creased as he looked on. “You still need to be eating and taking care of yourself.”

“I know that, I’m fully aware of that _ now,” _ Stiles said, frustrated and pacing. “But when I’m awake it’s like it all disappears into a fuzz. It’s- it’s like my soul is pulling me toward you. It’s so desperate to get to you that it’s leaving me without my permission.”

Peter’s lips pursed. He could see the obvious difference between Stiles when he was asleep and Stiles when he was awake. Peter had his suspicions; he was slowly beginning to feel more whole all the time, not just when Stiles was with him in a dream. 

“That might be more literal than I wish it was,” he said reluctantly.

They were both quiet at that. 

“Just a little longer,” Peter encouraged, coming over to put a hand up to Stiles’ cheek. “It should stop once I’m back. You just have to last a little longer.”

Sometimes “a little longer” it still too long.

* * *

Stiles sat in class, staring at the wall. Nothing penetrated the fog of his mind, and the only sensation he could feel was the constant pulsing pain in his head. 

He looked at the teacher. He didn’t even know what class he was in. Slowly, he swung his eyes forward to the board, but the images barely made sense. 

He tried listening next. Rounded vowels and pointed consonants filled his ears, refusing to turn into words, until-

“Moirae,” a girl to his left answered. 

“That’s right,” the teacher said. “Otherwise known as the Fates. Clotho, the spinner, Lachesis, the alloter, and Atropos, death, aka the one who cuts the thread.”

“What about balance?”

Everyone turned to look at Stiles in surprise. He hadn’t spoken in class in weeks. 

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” the teacher said slowly, a concerned furrow in her brow as she looked at him. 

“The other one. The spinner, the alloter, the cutter, and the balance. You know, quality control. The one who makes sure the thread of someone’s life isn’t spun unevenly or cut too short or-”

He stopped speaking abruptly as his vision began to black out from the pain in his head. 

“There’s no fourth Fate, Stiles.” She peered at him closely. “Stiles, are you alright?”

Stiles sat utterly still, blinking his eyes, trying not to move his head. 

“I don’t- I don’t feel great. I think I need to go to the nurse.” Without waiting for permission, he stood up with his bag and left the classroom. 

He headed for the parking lot. When he got to his Jeep, he lay down in the back instead of climbing into the driver’s seat, still too woozy to drive. 

Moirae. 

Who was balance?

His head throbbed. Stiles wished he could crack open his skull and empty it out. 

If he closed his eyes, Stiles could almost feel his head resting in Peter’s lap, fingers running over his hair. 

Five days until the Worm Moon. 

Stiles suspected that even if the ritual didn’t work, he’d be with Peter soon anyway.

* * *

The mirrors were placed. The moon was rising. 

After much discussion, they’d decided they didn’t need Derek. Peter’s body was already tied to Stiles’ in such a deep way that he doubted there was any ritual for which he couldn’t be a stand in. 

Peter felt so close to the surface, so close to being _ whole. _

He watched Stiles’ vacant face anxiously. 

As of that morning, Stiles’ soul was hanging on by a thread. 

The act of double checking the mirrors and Peter’s body had been Stiles’ last movement. 

Stiles currently sat to the side of Peter’s grave, staring with empty eyes. 

“Hold on darling, just hold on.” He knew Stiles couldn’t see him- doubted Stiles could truly see anything at the moment- but he crouched in front of his mate anyway. “As soon as I’m back with you we can figure this out.” 

Stiles listed to the side, and Peter cursed his inability to support him. He looked back up at the moon. 

It drifted over the mirror. 

Peter felt an unrelenting _ pull, _ dragging him down, back into his body. Both immensely relieved and terrified to take his eyes off of Stiles for even a moment, he let it take him. 

It was like a lock clicking into place. His soul settled into his body and he felt a spasm of _ immense _ pain as his muscles jolted, coming alive. 

He pulled himself up, reeling with the sudden sensory input. Smell, heat, cold, hearing-

Hearing nothing. 

Where was Stiles’ heartbeat?

Peter frantically climbed out to see Stiles slumped on the floor, no heartbeat to be found. 

Peter roared, a crash of anguish and fury. As quickly as he could with with newly functional muscles, he lay Stiles out flat and started CPR. 

_ Down, down, down, 5 centimeter compressions- _ CRACK, a rib gave. Then another.

_ -28, 29, 30 _

_ Rescue breath _

_ 1, 2, 3, 4- _

* * *

Stiles breathed, a cutting gasp of air as agony ripped through him. Peter’s shaking hands supported his neck as his heart began to beat on its own again, and sharp awareness came back. 

“Oh my god,” he panted through pained breaths. “Holy shit. Oh fuck, oh _ fuck-” _

As painful as Stiles’ entire body felt- and it _ did _ hurt- nothing could compare with centuries worth of sudden memories. 

The son of a teetotaler and the owner of a speakeasy-

Two farmers working endless amounts Chinese soil-

They were goddamn _ nuns _once. 

“What the _ fuck,” _ Stiles bit out. _ “What _ the fuck. _ What _ the _ fuck! _”

Peter collapsed next to him, still supporting his neck. He laughed, and it probably would have sounded hysterical if he weren’t so exhausted. 

“Did you get your memories back?”

Stiles grimaced, bringing his hands up to his rub his temples. It felt like his brain had been flipped over, rattled until everything came loose, and then righted. 

But it didn’t hurt. 

“They’re coming on now at least. My magic is definitely back. I can feel it.” Stiles held up a hand, and sparks dashed from one fingertip to the next. Peter looked over at him, mouth open slightly. 

“That never fails to amaze me.”

“You’re so easy,” Stiles teased, voice still a little breathless with the sudden crush of memories. 

“For you? Always.”

Stiles looked back at him, soaking in his love filled gaze for a moment before he remembered that they’d almost lost this. That they had, in fact, both died before regaining it. He grit his teeth. 

“We have some things to take care of. Let’s go.”

**Author's Note:**

> That's it folx. What follows is what might have been, if I had literally any motivation to write it.
> 
> Stiles and Peter are the fourth fate, one soul divided into two in order to assess the balance of the threads. Their job was to ensure that no life held an imbalance of luck or misfortune, happiness or sadness. They checked the spinner to make sure the thread of life was spun evenly, checked the alloter to ensure that no one's life had too little, and checked the cutter to ensure that the thread cut neatly. 
> 
> Naturally, they didn't care for the criticism, so they banished Peter and Stiles to mortality. Kind of. You can't really kill a god. Thus the reincarnations.
> 
> Anyway, Peter and Stiles, while hurt that their sisters pushed them away, were still content to have each other, until the above story takes place. They eventually discover that Lachesis, the alloter, was banished too, and blames Peter and Stiles for it. So Lachesis, in their new reincarnated mortal form, separated them in punishment. Peter and Stiles find them and Fuck 'Em Up, The End.


End file.
